MAY IT BE | hunt

[gael]

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♛ GAEL Ó BROIN

There is a respect for life ingrained the hearts and souls of the fae -- a steady consideration and constant awareness of the balance of nature.  To heed the cycle with due respect.  Consequently, the vulpine felt no blood lust -- no thrumming excitement, for a simple necessity.

In war, there may be the ice cold anger running through his veins but in hunting, there is only steady patience.  An at ease drive to achieve a goal, to further the traditions of this parched home.  Unity in times of change was essential.

As paws dipped in ink trotted through the jungle, Gael allowed his mind to wander.  This Summer Renewable may linger on the side of too much for his own daughter.  He had yet once seen the child hunt -- how long had he observed a bite of meat?  Regardless if she lacked the stomach, the vulpine felt hope she still understood the balance.  A druid must understand.

The cycle of life and death permeated nature; driving it forward and allowing it to flourish.  Without the delicate balance, the ground could not provide nutrients to the grass, nor the grass nutrients to the rabbit or mouse.  This, the faerie understood and respected.

He stepped onto the sand, hazel eyes on the distant raising sun until the bare flutter of movement catches his sharp gaze.  The large ears bopping along with a shuffle, Gael identified the jackrabbit within a blink.  A large, fast creature -- one the vulpine may not keep up with.  Tempting, but the faerie decided to wait rather than rush ahead, settling into the darkness of the bush.

The shadow flying overhead promised more fruitful opportunity.  More eyes on the jackrabbit.  He breathed softly through his nose, feeling the air as it moved through his lungs.  Slowly, he let his mind drift with the air flow, muscles tensing in preparation.

When the shadow dived forward -- a hawk -- Gael was ready.  He moved the second the rabbit began scrambling away -- bringing down the full force of wind against the great bird of prey.  Grounded, the raptor was more vulnerable and he made swift work of rerouting the nearby air.  Quick, as to not prolong the suffering.

Good. With a clean kill, the imperator began padding back through the trees, towards camp.  He may have overdone it in his attempt to be swift he noted as a slight pressure began building within his skull, but he considered it well worth the effort.  Perhaps a cup of chamomile tea was in order.

"I AM A STONE" —-- gael ó broin / faerie / imperator / lamby